


Improved Response Training

by Zaniida



Series: POI Prompt Fills [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (basically John doesn't much value his own life), FMI: Vulnerability, Gen, Nightmares, Nonsexual roleplay, Self-Worth Issues, Therapy, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26948773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: John seeks advice about his recurring dreams.Because he can't keep dreaming about killing Harold.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese
Series: POI Prompt Fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1099125
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: August Intimacy - September Stragglers 2020





	Improved Response Training

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idrilhadhafang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilhadhafang/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Field Guide to Common Birds in New York City](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12352749) by [Toft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft). 



> Okay, I might change the name. Thought I'd be creative and make it start with _I R T_ to match the therapy, but I couldn't find a good set of words that both matched that pattern and conveyed the feel I wanted to convey. Plus, I've got a headache, so I'm not in great shape to be deciding on weird names right now.
> 
> Anyway! Prompt was _Vulnerability: Wake from Nightmare_. **idrilhadhafang** won the right to prompt me by being the first to post a fill for my [August Intimacy](https://allbingo.dreamwidth.org/162885.html) event. Incidentally, the [September Stragglers](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FMI2020b) collection is still open, in case you'd like to write your own Nonsexual Intimacy fic; there's lots of prompts to choose from!
> 
> (Note: I didn't spot _Person of Interest_ among your giant list of fandoms, but I hope this delve into an intrusive nightmare will still be enjoyable for you.)
> 
> From the same prompt, I also wrote a much shorter MCU fic, [Dust and Ashes and Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FMI2020/works/25679749).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having dreamed one too many times about killing Harold ( _one time_ is "too many times"), John seeks help from a psychiatrist, but he's not entirely happy with her suggestion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent like half an hour trying to strongarm Google into telling me the cultural significance of Nepali jewelry, and mostly what I got was a few symbolic ties to Hindu and/or Buddhism, plus riches and beauty, plus trends (like a lot of ear piercings), which wasn't helpful. Though I did get green and dark blue as appropriate colors for someone in the mental health field, and turquoise as a general positive association. I hope that nothing I've portrayed here is severely counter to the Nepali or Nepali-American culture; I wanted to avoid the equivalent of portraying a Cherokee college girl with a Sioux war bonnet.
> 
> Regardless, I kinda like what I came up with. Which is a reminder to me that almost every time I've pushed a generic character into being a character with a clear ethnicity, it's been an improvement.

“I kill him,” John says, monotone, as though there’s no reaction to the idea. “I don’t like killing, but I’m very good at it. It’s easy. I shove him against the wall and press my arm against his throat and crush it just a little more and he’s dead. And I killed him.”

The sofa is altogether too comfortable for the revelation. He doesn’t squirm, but he wants to. Wants to vault out of his seat and strangle Dr. Pariyar with her own necklaces until there’s no one alive who knows about the deep, dark part of him that comes to the surface while he’s sleeping.

If _she_ doesn’t know, then Harold will _never_ know.

But he came here for a reason. The dreams themselves are hard enough to bear; he’s starting to worry that they’ll bleed out into real life. That he’ll end up hurting the _real_ Harold.

If there’s any way to stop the dreams, he has to try.

Dr. Pariyar hums, giving the moment a chance to breathe. An outward sign of an inward process; John has come to appreciate that, and the fact that she considers his words before making her own observations. Her soft smile doesn’t slip; under the thin gold chains across her forehead, her brow furrows slightly _(concern)_ , but she doesn’t seem overly troubled by his confession.

After a moment, she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Within the dream, you don’t feel distressed?” she confirms, in that clipped Nepali accent.

Just once, he nods; it feels like the next damning confession. That he could kill Harold and not even care.

“But once you’re back in the waking world, when you _remember_ having the dream… how do you feel?”

It’s a long moment before he can even think the words, and his voice refuses to cooperate, his eyes darting around the room like they’re looking for an escape route. Pariyar sits there calmly, plump hands folded on the desk.

Finally, John manages to croak out: “Like I betrayed him.”

When John doesn’t continue, she takes a slow, deep breath, quietly adjusting her rings; it’s an excuse not to look at him, to give him a moment of visual privacy to compose himself. She’s done it before, with her rings, her bangles, the airy green scarf that loops low across her chest.

Finally, she looks at him again. “You say this dream is based on the day you met. When you _felt_ like killing him, but restrained yourself.”

John swallows. “I didn’t know… how badly he’d been hurt. His neck… I could have killed him without even meaning to.”

“We can only act on the information we have at the time, John. And you’ve said that he hides his injuries. On the day you met, was there any way for you to know the extent of his limitations?”

Raising his gaze to her again, John says, “You don’t have pierced ears.”

To her credit, Pariyar merely raises her eyebrows, though her hand does go almost unconsciously to her ear, where a slim turquoise pendant hangs down. “Observant,” she says.

“ _Most_ women have pierced ears,” he says. “Maybe one in ten who don’t, and they tend to favor a simpler style. But you…” His gaze travels pointedly over her bangles, armlet, necklaces, shiny green hair pin—and the ear cuffs mostly hidden beneath her wavy black hair.

She smiles, ducking her head a little. “The Nepali culture is fond of piercings. It starts quite young. My mother wanted to let _me_ decide. You know, most people don’t even notice.”

“That’s what I do,” he says, his voice rough. “What I was _trained_ to do. I spot outliers—traits and behaviors that break patterns. People who don’t belong. Weaknesses to exploit. I pick up on the details of everyone around me, and that’s a skill I can’t just turn off.”

Again, she hums for a moment before speaking. “Are you implying that you _should_ have noticed, or that, under normal circumstances, you _would_ have noticed?”

“I _did_ notice,” he says, almost plaintively. “The day I met him… I noticed that he turns his torso instead of his head. Almost the first thing I knew about him, next to his accent, his money, his taste in suits. When we walked back to the car, I noticed that he had a limp. But I didn’t”— _he almost chokes, but forces the words out_ —“I didn’t think about _why_ he didn’t turn his head. Or why he might be limping. Or that the two might be connected.”

Thoughtfully, she nods, taking that in. Then she purses her lips. “It sounds like your behavior that day was different from your personal normal. An outlier, you called it? What sort of factors might account for that?”

It hurts to reach back to that time and try to analyze his behavior, his mindset. It’s like being a different person: Post-Finch, who he is now, is not Pre-Finch, who he was _then_. No comparison.

After two full minutes have passed, she taps a fingernail against one of her rings, lightly breaking the heavy-laden silence. “Let’s try this from a different angle. Right before you met him, what were you doing?”

“His men were taking me to meet him.”

“Good. And before that?”

“The police station. One of them came and got me. Said he was my lawyer.”

“And before that?”

“Interrogation.”

“At the police station?”

“Yeah. She was trying to figure me out.”

“Your detective friend?”

He nods. “It was the day we met.”

“Ah.” A moment’s hesitation, but then she evidently decides not to derail. “And before that?”

“The cops brought me to the station.”

“And before that?”

“On the subway… a group of teenagers stole my whiskey, threatened me.”

“Mmm. And before that?”

He closes his eyes. “I was… debating whether it was better to drink myself to death, or to… jump off the bridge.” Even now, there’s no strong emotion about the idea; his own life has never mattered much to him, so disposing of it doesn’t seem like a big deal. “I’d almost talked myself into the bridge before… everything else.”

“Well, we’ve gotten to an active verb, at least.” Dr. Pariyar leans back in her chair. “Did you hear yourself, John? ‘Taking me… figure me out… brought me… threatened me’… like all these things are happening _to_ you, and you’re just along for the ride, not doing anything for yourself.”

Then she goes quiet, running her scarf through her fingers and giving him room to mull over the observation, to internalize the data.

It’s hard, taking a clear look at his own mind and trying to convince himself that his perceptions, his conclusions, have been faulty. Are _still_ faulty, even though they seem obvious to him. But that’s what these sessions are for, to help him realign himself on the inside.

Eventually, her silence drives him to fill it. “That’s what it was like,” he says, slowly.

When she merely tilts her head, inquisitive, he digs a little deeper. “When I got pushed into the army, it was that or jail time. Not much choice, but it was a good fit for me. I got pushed from one assignment to the next, just had to follow orders. Didn’t have to think too much.”

She hums. “Is the military really so mindless?”

Shaking his head, he tries to find words for the distinction. “I didn’t have to _make choices_. They told me where to go and what to do; I figured out how to do the job. That’s been the same my whole life… even now.”

“You never questioned your orders?”

Hunching in on himself, he feels battered by the memories of all the times he’d pushed back the sense of _wrongness_ , and simply let things happen. Pulled a trigger. Tortured a prisoner. Set up a patsy. “I didn’t have all the intel,” he says, knowing it’s inadequate. “Someone up the chain, someone with better intel, _they_ made the choice.”

“And you were okay with that?”

Not okay. Not since… Kara. Maybe before, but definitely the night he met her. Watching her kill those men, claim it was “right,” that he had to _believe_ it was right, when everything inside him was screaming out against the idea.

It was the Ordos mission that finally let the screams come out.

Closing his eyes, he takes deep, steadying breaths. “After… the last mission, after… finding that Jessica…” _He can’t complete that thought._ “Walking around in a daze, just wondering why I wasn’t dead yet. No sense of what to do with my life.”

When he’s silent too long, lost in that mind-fog, she gently nudges him: “You found a purpose again, John. Helping others. Saving lives.”

He nods; sometimes, especially here, torn open like this, he needs that reminder.

“Do you feel like your life has meaning, now?”

Again, he nods. “Because of _him_ ,” he says fervently. “He found me. He _saved_ me. He changed everything for me.” He chokes, the tears slipping loose. “And I _killed_ him.”

“You killed him?” Dr. Pariyar echoes quietly, bringing him back.

“I… I _could have_ killed him,” John corrects himself. “So easily. I might _still_ kill him, because he… he wouldn’t let me go. He joined me on the—rooftop.”

“Rooftop?” she questions, when he can’t go on. It’s a piece he hasn’t shared with her, not yet.

Describing what happened on the rooftop—what _nearly_ happened—it’s not the worst moment of his life, but it’s close, and he barely manages to force himself through the experience again. And he has to watch what he says, how much he reveals. But then it’s done, it’s out there, and she’s leaning forward in her chair.

“So he risked his own life for a chance to save yours,” she says. Her warm eyes are filled with both concern and compassion, but her voice stays calm, clinical, almost to the point of being cold. He’s grateful for that; the first three shrinks he tried got too invested in the cover story he handed them, and he didn’t stick around to open up about even a small fraction of his reality. Pariyar takes things in stride.

“And from what you’ve told me before,” she adds, “that’s not the first time. He evidently thinks you’re valuable, John. Sounds like a pretty good partner.”

“He is.”

“And you wanted him to leave you there to die. Not the first time for that, either. Why is that, John?”

 _Don’t even risk it_ , his sound-memory cries, and there’s a twinge in his gut, the memory of getting shot, bleeding out. “It’s… I’m not… he shouldn’t risk himself for me, I’m not worth it.”

“He seems to disagree,” she says mildly. “Do you think it’s merely for the missions?”

A few months ago, he would have had to mull it over; a few months before that, he would have said _yes_ , and might even have been right. He shakes his head.

After a moment, Dr. Pariyar taps her chin. “So, to summarize: He wants you to live, and you want him to live. He’s proven himself willing to risk his freedom, his safety, his life in order to save you. You’ve proven yourself willing to risk your freedom, your safety, your life in order to save _him_. That’s a pretty strong basis for a friendship. Together, you’ve saved lives. Dozens. You’ve found your purpose again.”

He nods, beyond words.

“And yet, for some reason, you’ve been dreaming about killing him.”

Vaulting to his feet, John paces between window and door, visualizing just rushing out the door. Breaking the glass and getting away.

But he came here for a reason, and he can’t keep living with these _dreams_. If there’s a chance of making them stop—

“Given that our session is almost over, I think we’ll save the ‘why’ for next time. Maybe you’ll have some insights between now and then. But there are a few more questions I’d like to ask you, if you feel up to it.”

Jerkily, he nods, without looking her way.

“How often do you encounter this dream?”

“A lot. Most nights,” he admits, like it’s a moral failing. “All the ways I could have hurt him before I even got to know who he really is.” Leaning one arm against the window, he stares out into the darkness, down at the city, picking out all the traffic cams. Not long ago, they wouldn’t have meant a thing to him, but now they stand out like Christmas lights.

“Often enough that it’s negatively impacting your life?”

He blows air out through his nose. “Do people come to you over daydreams?”

“They do, sometimes,” she says mildly. “But it’s not my place to make assumptions, John.”

Closing his eyes again, he lets the cool of the glass seep into his skin. It takes him a moment to find the words, and she doesn’t interrupt his process. “I can’t look at him lately,” he says, finally. “Not without… he can’t turn his head, he’s so… vulnerable. I can’t get near him without thinking, what if I tripped and jarred him a little, what if I fell on him?”

“Mmm. Intrusive, then, would you say? That’s not uncommon, you know, in people who’ve spent time in intense jobs, as you have, or who have survived traumatic experiences. As you also have.”

A drawer opening, papers rustling; it takes an act of will to not turn around, to trust that she hasn’t just pulled a gun on him. Or maybe that’s another facet of his ‘suicidal ideation’, leaving himself open to attack.

“Well, John, when dealing with recurring nightmares, there are some very promising results from a technique called Imagery Rehearsal Therapy. The key is to break the old associations and form new ones in your brain, until your brain stops obsessing over the distressing imagery. Would you be interested in giving that a try?”

“How does it work?” he asks, without turning around.

“It’s a little like rewriting the ending to a play. Basically, you describe the dream in writing, one step after another, and then, before it gets to the worst part, you turn the story down a new path. Your brain’s gotten obsessed with a downer ending; you can give it a more positive ending to latch onto. Or even, if you prefer, a neutral ending that doesn’t trigger an emotional reaction of either sort. Then you train your brain to follow the new version of the story.

“The key difficulty,” she adds, tapping her rings lightly on the desk, “is that you’ll need to revisit that same dream many times, as you mold it into a better form. You’ll be _rehearsing_ the _imagery_. And this will likely trigger the dream a few times, with its current ending, before you can train your mind to go in a different direction.”

He turns, narrows his eyes at her. Stifles the rage that wants to come bursting out through his pores. “You want me to… _deliberately_ … make myself dream about killing Harold.” It’s surprising that he managed to get those words out, in that order, and somewhat calm.

“I want you to be _free_ of distressing dreams, John. This is one possible way to achieve that.” Spreading her hands, palm up, Dr. Pariyar conveys it as an offer, not a demand. “Whether you practice this technique or not, you will most likely have those dreams again. If your brain is fixated on working through the idea that prompted the dreams, it’s going to keep replaying that imagery. When you’re unconscious, there’s not much you can do to stop it.

“If it’s too distressing to deal with the main dream right away, we can practice on less troubling dreams until you’ve gotten used to the technique.”

John almost walks out the door, but he _came here for a reason_ , and he cannot keep having these dreams. Not if he’s going to work with Harold. Not if he’s going to be assured that he doesn’t confuse dream for reality and accidentally harm Harold in _real life_.

She’s holding out a blue pamphlet. He takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not used to putting much effort into describing the appearance of my female characters. Or male characters, even. Possibly that's due to my aphantasia (not being able to picture them all that much to begin with), but a lot of it ties down to a pushback against appearance-centered writing style.
> 
> There's a [parody piece](https://funsubstance.com/fun/479837/she-breasted-boobily-or-how-some-males-write-female-characters/) about a guy writing a female character, which took off as a [Twitter prompt](https://www.bustle.com/p/women-on-twitter-are-describing-themselves-the-way-a-male-author-would-the-tweets-are-spot-on-8670575): "Describe yourself the way a male author would." But even before I ran across that stuff, I've had a sort of aversion to describing a character's body, clothes, accessories. So this piece is a bit off-model for me as a writer.
> 
> But one of my helpful beta fill-ins said "Can you make the therapist a guy? This is giving me Iris vibes." And since I wanted the "cool, calm, clinical, almost cold" part to stay, and since I didn't want to hit at the "men are logical, women are emotional" nonsense, I had to make the character more... notable. A bit of random web-wandering and some research later, and we get this gal. Who is no longer giving off the Iris vibes ^_^
> 
> Not sure how soon I'll be delving into the second chapter (so much to do! month goes by too fast), but the plan is for Harold to find out that John is trying to reframe his nightmare, and to offer to help John do so by roleplaying the nightmare and changing the ending.
> 
> Notably, in the hands of many writers, this would be a great excuse to move it to a sexy context. I am not most writers, and this will remain nonsexual, nonromantic. (There may or may not be kissing; I haven't yet decided, but if kissing happens, it'd be an attempt to derail John's brain, and not meant in a sexual or romantic manner.) However, I am never stingy with my ideas, and if you feel like writing the ending in a different way, I fully encourage it! I love seeing people branch off from my work.


End file.
